


Merry Christmas, I Could Care Less

by turps



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 06:40:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17441843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: Bucky isn't having a good day.





	Merry Christmas, I Could Care Less

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sperrywink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sperrywink/gifts).



> Surprise, Sperrywink! I hope you like this.
> 
> Huge thanks go to Lucifuge5 for the reassurances and excellent beta.

Bucky hates today.

He hates the too-bright lights and the softly falling snow and the cheery group of carollers that are singing on a corner. He hates the Santa shaking a bucket for money donations and the way he enthusiastically “ho ho hos” as Bucky stalks past. He especially hates the smell of coffee, a scent that gets stronger the closer Bucky gets to his store.

Well, not _Bucky’s store_ exactly, just where he ended up. It was either take a job out in the real world or remain stuck in the rehab program. There was only so many times he could practice everyday practical tasks or talk about feelings -- or not talk, whatever, at least Bucky turned up even if he sometimes didn’t open his mouth.

So here he is. Working at a place that’s supportive to the needs of a clumsy, sort-of traumatized ex-soldier, and a place Bucky usually tolerates, but today hates.

“Bucky, hey.” Sara’s working behind the counter, looking perky and unruffled despite the felt reindeer antlers perched on her head, and the fact that the queue at the counter is, already, at least ten people deep. “You’re early today.”

Bucky shrugs, chin tucked down as he eyes the line, taking in the interested glances directed his way. Most skitter straight past, but one man keeps looking for more than a few seconds, staring at the tucked up and pinned left sleeve of Bucky’s hoodie. The place where Bucky’s arm should be, and how he’s got the sleeve of his hoodie tucked up and pinned. 

Battling against the urge to hunch into himself even further. Or punch the guy straight in the face. Bucky heads for the back of the shop, relaxing when he squeezes in the small always too hot kitchen.

“Mr Barnes! Bucky. You’re here early.” Almost hidden behind a pile of dirty coffee cups, Peter grins and wipes at his forehead, making his hair stick up in sweat-coated spikes. “It’s crazy in here today. We ran out of mini candy canes earlier, so I had to run and get some more from the shop a few blocks over. You know, the one with the ice rink outside? I’d hate to work there, those lines are crazy I was talking to Bec and she said she dreamed about making hot chocolate in her sleep. That would suck, huh? At least I only dream about flying.” Taking a moment, Peter take a breath and then adds, “Do you ever dream?”

Instantly, Bucky thinks about explosions and sharp metal shards, blood flowing free, a wet heat that contrasts to how he feels now, cold and shut down. He reminds himself that Peter doesn’t know. That, as always, he’s just trying too hard to be friendly. “No, I don’t.”

Bucky bites out the words, hating how Peter instantly shrinks away, looking rebuffed as he turns his attention back to the cups. If Bucky was any kind of a good person, he’d apologize, but the words don’t come. All he can do to tug off his hoodie, hating the way his hand trembles as he drops it onto a chair at the back of the room.

“Bad day?” 

Bucky flinches when Sam steps into view, realizing he’s been in the tiny manager’s office behind the kitchen and has apparently heard every word. 

“Do you need to go home? Or stay back here today?”

This is the kind of understanding that Bucky needs -- why Sam is the perfect person to coordinate between the rehab center and here. But, at the same time, Bucky bristles against that compassion, hating that, as always, he’s nothing but someone to manage.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, and would leave it at that if it wasn’t for the fact Sam’s still watching, apparently needing an explanation. “Just didn’t sleep well last night.”

It’s the truth, mostly. Bucky doesn’t sleep well at all, a few hours on the good nights, and on the bad, well, he’s counting in minutes.

For a long moment, Sam just looks before he says, “Okay. But if you need to cut out early.”

“I won’t,” Bucky says. He grabs his apron off a nearby hook, drapes it over his head and swallows back the bitterness that rises when Sam ties it without a word. 

~*~*~*~

Four hours later and Bucky’s feeling more settled. 

While working in the kitchen _should_ be easy, Bucky has to concentrate no matter how mundane the task at hand. Opening the dishwasher and handling the contents is something he’s had to relearn how to do. But now, he’s a pro at shutting the door with a push of his hip and balancing towers of cups one-handed.

At first, when Bucky was suffering through his first week of work, silent and brooding and flinching at every kind word, he’d broken so many cups and plates that he’d wanted to rage quit as he awkwardly swept up shards of china. 

Now, Bucky’s good at what he does, even if all that is is clean tables, load dishes and, in quiet times, learn to make drinks. Time to get going, and Bucky picks up a tray, tucking it under his arm as he heads into the main area.

Instantly, he’s assaulted by the scent of peppermint, chocolate, and sugar. Just like yesterday, the lights of the Christmas tree by the corner are on full blast. Bucky can’t help squint a little when he approaches the table next to it, inwardly cursing all that brightness.

_Mom, look at his arm._

The first almost whisper happens in minutes. Bucky keeps stacking his tray, careful about balance as he leaves an inch or so hanging over the edge so he can pick it up after. Behind him, the small child keeps talking, her mom shushing her as Bucky’s ears burn and he pretends not to care. Not that he does, not really. Bucky knows that people will look. It’s inevitable, but that doesn’t mean that he likes it. Especially on days like to today when everything feels too bright and his whole body hurts in a way that feels bone deep.

_But mom, he’s got no arm!_.

The last is almost a shout, and Bucky jerks, his hip catching the edge of the tray. The result is inevitable, cups and plates smashing off the tiled floor and every customer looking his way. Bucky wants to curl up and hide. Or run away. Anything but stay here, pinned under sympathetic glances and offers of help.

“I can do it,” Bucky says, waving away the offers as he grabs a broom and starts sweeping. But even that is a disaster, spilt cold coffee smearing the floor and sharp shards getting crushed as Bucky tries to sweep between the chairs while avoiding the gaze of those watching.

It’s embarrassing and frustrating and Bucky wants to shove the broom handle down the throat of the next person who even looks like they’re going to offer to help.

“Order for outside.” Sam steps into view, hand hovering close to Bucky’s back, gently steering without touching. “Take it out, I’ve got this.”

Bucky wants to refuse, but knows that he needs to get out, his head’s buzzing to a background of _shamehealmostlooksnormalpeoplelikethatarealiability_ as he takes hold of the small tray already loaded with a large coffee and muffin, and heads for the door.

Outside, there’s only two tables, and right now only one is occupied. Bucky doesn’t get why someone has chosen to stay out in the cold until he sees a man sitting next to a dog and quietly petting him.

“Your order,” Bucky says, preparing to set down the tray. Of course, because what would be a shitty day without them, a phantom pain hits just then. Thankfully, they’re not as bad as they can be. Even so, Bucky hates them: that feeling of nerves twitching and broken glass grinding into a limb that’s not even there. Trying to focus, he pretends he’s clenching a ghost hand, but it doesn’t help. It rarely does so all Bucky can do is try to steady the tray so the coffee doesn’t spill, but even so, the muffin slides off it and onto the floor.

“Oh, hey.” It’s only when the muffin rolls under his nose that the man looks up, seeming bemused when he looks between the muffin and Bucky. “Is that our order? We usually get it on a plate.”

“I’m. No, it’s just --I’ll get you a new one.” Ghost hand still twitching, Bucky carefully picks up the coffee, setting it down on the table and resisting the urge to throw his tray into the street. “Give me a minute.”

“No, wait,” the man says and picks up the muffin, rubbing it over the front of his hoodie. “Five second rule. Plus Lucky doesn’t care about dirt. I don’t either to be honest. I’ve eaten worse.”

“You can’t eat dirtmuffin.” As much as Bucky doesn’t want to go back inside, he also knows he can’t serve a customer food that’s been plucked from the ground. “Just stay there, I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Or you could stay here instead?” the man says. He’s staring through the huge plateglass windows into the shop, head moving as he looks between the groups of customers inside. “They’ll find something else to talk about soon. They always do.”

Confused, Bucky looks inside too, but all he can see is Sam mopping the floor while the customers chat, some repeatedly glancing outside. “You can hear them? And I’m working.”

“The opposite, I can’t hear them,” the man says, pointing at the small hearing aids he’s wearing. “Come on, you can take a break. Hang with me and Lucky, be a coffee ambassador for your store.”

“A _coffee ambassador_?” It’s nothing Bucky’s heard of before, but truthfully, right now he needs to be in the fresh air, even if it does mean sitting with an overly chatty stranger and his weirdly bedraggled but cute dog. “I’m not one of those.”

“You sell coffee. Therefore, a coffee ambassador.” The man picks up his coffee, sighing with pleasure after taking a long drink. “Nectar of the gods. I’m Clint by the way.”

“Bucky,” Bucky says without thinking, breathing a little easier as Clint takes another drink of his coffee before flashing Bucky a wide smile. 

In response, Clints holds up his cup in a salute and says, “Hey.”

Bucky nods, feeling calmer, his head less muddled as he sits on one of the small metal chairs, eyes closing against a world that remains too noisy and bright.

“It sucks sometimes.”

Bucky keeps his eyes closed, listening to Clint, holding onto the sound of his voice.

“Everyone wants to help, especially at first. Suggesting tech, doorbells that flash, TVs that have the best subtitle options. Shouting in my face like they think that it’ll help. It’s all good-natured, but, you know, sucks.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says and then, again, “Yeah,” because he gets it. Every helpful suggestion and gesture making him feel lesser somehow, suggesting he’s helpless in a way that he hates. Which isn’t true, Bucky knows that, but knowing and feeling are two separate things.

“Then there are the ones who ask about implants.” A long silence, then the sound of Clint taking a drink. “Whatever, I get on just fine.”

A chair scraping, metal against the ground and Bucky looks up, seeing Clint standing before him, the dog’s leash looped around his wrist. “I need to go, but we’ll be back tomorrow. You know, if you want to talk again.”

Bucky starts to point out they haven’t talked today, not really. But all he says is, “I’ll be here.”

And for the first time today, smiles, when Clint takes a bite of the muffin before screwing up his face and says, “Urg, dirt,” before walking away.


End file.
